


Nothing under the umbrella

by soy_em



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Protective Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 01:04:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soy_em/pseuds/soy_em
Summary: Sam hates it, the lurching, aching feeling of disorientation when Dean is hurt





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wincest writing challenge: hurt!Dean
> 
>  
> 
> [Prompt](https://soy-em.tumblr.com/post/159540262760/wincest-writing-challenge-nothing-under-the)

Sam hates it, the lurching, aching feeling of disorientation when Dean is hurt. It's like his brain goes on strike, blocking out everything around him with tunnel-vision focused on green eyes and scattered freckles. His world narrows to the rhythm of Dean’s chest, syncing his own to his brothers with a staggering pull. It doesn’t matter what’s going on around them, whether anyone else is hurt or in danger - he’s only able to carry on as long as that’s in Dean’s best interests. He can salt and burn the ghost, shoot the werewolf straight between the eyes, stick the silver knife in the shape shifter, but only if that’s what’s best for Dean, if that’s what will get him to his brother’s side fastest.

It's no different this time, Dean falling backwards, winded and bleeding, as the ghost smacks a chair into his face. Sam’s chest tightens, aches with anxiety as he sees his brother go down, sees blood on Dean’s face. It doesn’t matter how many times Dean bleeds, it still cuts Sam too. 

He fights back against the ghost, half his attention on Dean, but that’s all the ghost needs really. Lighter fluid races across its bones and it disappears in a rush, leaving silence in its wake. 

Sam skids across the floor, drops to his knees with a bruising thump and starts to pat Dean down, trying to work out where his injury is. Perhaps, in his frantic worry, he’s a little more forceful than necessary but hallelujah, it seems to rouse his brother and suddenly Dean is wracked with huge, gasping breaths. 

Sam’s own lungs echo his brother’s to the unspoken beat of ‘soulmate, soulmate, soulmate’. Not for the first time, or the last, Sam is reminded of that trip upstairs, the familiar, grimy beer-salt smell of the roadhouse and Ash, leaning towards them with the clear expectation that they’d freak out. But Sam had only felt something settle, quiet and content, in his heart at the long-overdue explanation of what he and Dean are. There’s no label, certainly, in the everyday world for them, nothing under the umbrella, even wide-ranging as it is now, that fits them - but soulmates. That had felt just right.

Dean’s eyes flicker open, slowly and cautiously, squinting at the light. Sam hurries to support Dean as he forces himself upwards, never one to admit weakness. Despite all his experience at being winded, Dean still tries to speak too early and it takes a couple of tries before he succeeds. 

“Ghost?” he croaks, voice rough like their morning afters. 

“Gone. Little brother took care of it.”

“Smartass.” But Dean’s fingers are tight on Sam’s wrist and he’s leaning hard into Sam, pressing their bodies together as much as possible despite their many layers. Sam imagines their ribs cracking apart and intertwining, growing together like the branches of a tree and closing around each other, a physical representation of the fact that they are one. Its an image he sees often, a recurring dream that leaves him pleased when he wakes in the mornings, Dean’s head pillowed on his chest.  
He props Dean against the wall and starts their clean up process, handing Dean some water while he removes every trace of them from the shack. Dean rolls his eyes at the water and there’s a moment where Sam thinks it's going to fly across the room towards, him, but when he looks back it's gone. 

Once Sam is content that it's safe for them to leave, he goes to collect his brother. While cleaning, he’d been aware of Dean, aware that he was in pain, but it's only when he turns his full attention to Dean that he realises that Dean is more hurt than he realised. His brother is ashen-pale, freckles standing out and dark circles forming under his eyes.

“You idiot, why didn’t you say you were properly hurt?” Sam’s concern comes out as tetchiness, a language both of them are well-versed in. 

“Not hurt. Twinged my ankle a bit, that’s all.” Dean, stubborn fucker that he is, attempts to stand and it's only the string between their hearts that allows Sam to jump forwards in time to catch him as he falters. 

“You trying to sweep me off my feet, Sammy?” Dean’s voice is quieter than usual, the snark caught up in pain, and Sam has had enough. He takes Dean at his word and sweeps him up, arm under knees and his long fingers curling around to where he could stroke Dean’s nipple under better circumstances. 

Dean squawks at the indignity but Sam’s patience is shot, ripped to pieces by the thought of Dean in pain. Sam carries him purposefully to the car and is making for the back seat when, “If you put me in the back, Sammy, I swear to God…”

“Well you can’t drive, Dean.”

“No.” The word is sharp and bitter. “But I’ll be damned if I’m going in the back like a child.”

“Fine.” Sam knows that he’s making what Dean calls an “epic bitchface” because Dean is just so pigheaded when he’s hurt. But he tamps down his annoyance and wrestles the car door open, before depositing his brother as gently as he thinks Dean will allow into the front seat. He throws their kit into the boot and they roar off, because Sam can’t wait to be away from yet another house where his brother has gotten hurt. 

Dean’s obviously in pain during the journey, every unavoidable jolt bouncing his ankle and piercing Sam’s heart. They roll back into the motel and Dean has the door open, pulling himself out of the car, before Sam has even fully stopped, obviously determined to not be dependent on Sam’s help again. But it only takes a couple of faltering steps for him to realise that he can’t do it on his own, and Sam supports his big brother into the room, exulting as always in this opportunity to be the carer after a lifetime of the opposite.

Once he gets everything settled, he slips to his knees to finally examine Dean’s foot. His fingers tremble slightly as he works to get the heavy work boot off Dean’s foot, desperate to not cause more pain. He slides down the now-pungent sock with gentle hands, stroking softly against beloved skin as he goes. Dean has his head tipped back, eyes closed and lashes shuddering, hands gripping the side of the chair. 

Even though it's barely been any time, Dean’s ankle is a throbbing mass of purple-black bruises, swollen and shiny and radiating heat, and Sam knows it's going to be a long few days before Dean is mobile again. Dean hisses as he looks down, and Sam presses a soft kiss to the side of his brothers shin as he pulls a chair across. “Sit here for a minute,” he says, before going to find ice.

When he comes back to the room with hastily procured pie as well as an ice bucket, Dean is still, thankfully, where he left him, teeth biting an indent into red lips. They eat quietly, Sam at Dean’s feet while he holds the ice on his brother's foot and spoons himself pie with his other hand. He keeps his eyes on Dean as much as he can, years of experience telling him that the best way to deal with the adrenalin drop is to be close to the warmth of his brother. There’s something about being at Dean’s feet, too, that he responds to on a primal level; an element of worship that feels fully deserved.

When they finish, he helps Dean to piss (reflecting on how uncomfortably frequent a task that is for them both), and then makes Dean comfortable on his bed. He’s about to flick the tv on for Dean, and go to do some research at the table, when Dean catches his sleeve and tugs. 

Sam meets Dean’s eyes with surprise, and Dean pulls again, more forcefully. Despite Sam’s craving for touch, Dean hardly ever wants to cuddle, and even less so when he already feels weak. Dean smiles up at him through, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Sam is helpless to resist his brother when he’s happy. He tucks himself in against Dean, head on his chest, and breathes when Dean does. Dean’s hand lands on Sam’s hair, scritching just right, and Sam swears he can feel his soul expand and contract in time with Dean’s, filling up the spaces Dean leaves behind. He closes his eyes and imagines them as trees, growing ever more connected and interlaced, matching in every way and slides towards sleep with a smile on his face.


End file.
